


Doctor Who - Colepaldi RPF -- The Weekend - Sunday

by Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis (Samstown4077)



Series: Colepaldi Collection [60]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: A series in a series, Colepaldi, F/M, Friendship, Get handkerchiefs, Humour, Kissing, Love, Making Love, Part III, Really people cry here and I don't know why but they do, Romance, Suppressed Feelings, THIS IS FICTION!, Unsaid things, a look into the future, between the lines, it's always, it's complicated - Freeform, platonic, this is the end of the colepaldi collection, tieing lose ends, what might can be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Colepaldi-in-the-Tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Peter's last weekend in Cardiff before he moves back to London, after he has regenerated as the Doctor. Jenna, who has come back for his last episode, wants to help him pack his stuff. This leads to them, spending this last weekend together. (Last) Part of the Colepaldi Collection and also of the Series "The Weekend" that tells those last three days in three last stories. You'll read Sunday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part three - Sunday- of a special Colepaldi project, called ["The Weekend"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/421678). Please consider to read Part I [(Friday)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6219767) and Part II [(Saturday)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6219790/) first! 
> 
> Please check tags!
> 
> This chapter contains M/E-rated scenes. All those scenes are written in italics! The thing is, this story jumps between two different points in time back and forth. The italics parts are the parts what some might not want to read.
> 
>  
> 
> **Please, jump to the second Chapter, there you'll find the exact same story, but WITHOUT the M/E-rated content!**
> 
>  
> 
> The rest has nothing to do with sex or kissing. You are safe reading it, and the story can be understood without a problem. 
> 
> I also want to point out, that I have changed from past into present tense. I found myself drifting from the past into the present tense while writing and so I decided to go that way. It's probably a big "error" and for some it will need a bit time to get used to it, but after reading over it a few times I think it makes it more close more intense - I needed the present tense. In both situations. You'll get what I mean.
> 
> FYI, I listened a lot to "London Heart by Tenderhook" and "Wrapped in my Memory by Shawn Smith" and I think those two songs are so fitting. I also used some lyrics of "London Heart" in the text. You can find both songs on YT, also the Tenderhook song is better on Spotify. :o)

 

**_Five years later._ **

 

[ They meet in a bookshop. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5130011) On a Sunday.

 

What kind of bookshop has open on a Sunday? This one obviously

She is there on coincidence, browsing for a present

He is there on coincidence too, because, after all these years, he finally can browse without being noticed all too often.

Coincidence. Maybe that it was. Also, we all know that the universe is rarely so lazy.

He has basically retired. From time to time doing a thing here and there. Nothing too big, just something to fill up the need to act and to do something. The acting it's in his blood, in his bones, and knows he will do it till he falls into his grave.

Mostly he enjoys having Grandchildren now. That is his new role, and he found himself enjoying it -- sometimes too much.

She enjoys similar. Not Grandchildren, just children. Time has passed, it was about time probably. Family. That's her main project at the moment, aside many others.

Always restless, always the busy actress nevertheless. She asked him to come, a few years ago, to the big event, but he hadn't been available. He was doing a thing, and instead sent her a lovely little video message, telling her he would have loved to see her in that dress. That he loved her in general.

They both knew why he couldn't be there. And it had been okay.

It's good to see her again, not that they hadn't met a few times over the last five years. They just never had met in private, like this, on coincidence — in a bookshop.

They settle into a corner, each one of them a book in hand, and if it is only to keep their hands busy, and away from each other. The magic is still there, the highly praised chemistry, glowing around them. It never got tired of leaving them.

There is no chit-chat, no awkward talk about film projects. It is only them, being all too familiar with each other. She compliments his shirt, tells him he looks good, very good, for his age. The weather of Spain did an excellent job on him, and he tells her that she is glowing from the inside, more than ever. That he has cried like a kid, seeing her last film, so touched he had been by it.

"What are you reading?" she glances at the book in his hand, and he smirks at it, and then smiles at her — a little sad.

It's a throwback; she will remember, he is sure when he turns the cover showing her [ "Night Train to Lisbon". ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3736528/chapters/8445373)

“I haven’t read it for a while,” the tips of his long fingers, on one his golden ring, trail gently over the cover. “It gives me comfort.” 

He had sent her a copy a few years ago, plain, without a big fuss. Just an envelope, postmarked in Spain.

On the inside, _‘for Jenna. Peter'._

Nothing more was needed. It had always been like this. They knew, they always had. A sentiment one hadn't to talk about too much. They were British after all. And Scottish.

They still remember as if it had been yesterday. And for some reason in their heads, it only had been yesterday. A memory burned so deep into their beings, that time had lost its meaning.

 

_Her tongue in his mouth, tasting after the orange juice she had before they had gone to bed that evening._

_She licks against his upper lip, teasingly, while his arms are around her waist holding her close, not ever wanting her to leave his lap._

_Her legs around him, them sitting on the floor, the music still playing in the background. Bowie. Who else. It was always Bowie — with him. Always would be._

 

Once she had stood in a store, lost, and when she had looked down, there was a record of David Bowie. Not his latest, but the one with ‘Heroes' on it. She never really had been into Bowie, she couldn't say why. It was just not her thing. But the song was, and the record that sat there, probably for ages, waiting for her — in her mind, only for her. So she bought it — not even having a record player at home.

Two weeks later she bought one. After the record had leaned against the glass of the window in her study. Between pictures from filming, some awards, little fan drawings.

Hidden in plain sight.

Bowie. Peter. Heroes. She had heard him play the song, all those years ago, in the Tardis — of course, while her heart had been on fire and was breaking at the same time.

They both knew she had listened. She never had forgotten.

 

_His warm hands slowly shove under her jumper -- curious, eager, gentle. Feeling her warm skin -- finally. A sensation he will never be able to describe._

_His finger trail along the bones of her spine, mapping her out,[like they once mapped out their faces in the dark](The%20news%20from%20Freddie%20hit%20Bel%20hard.%20She%20knows%20she%20has%20to%20overcome%20him,%20but%20it's%20hard%20on%20her%20own.%20But%20is%20she?%20On%20her%20own?)_.

 _What a prologue! A tragedy in one act -- a prologue in … what?_ [ _60, maybe?_ ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/150066)

 

_He tastes like bubble gum because he was chewing one while they had packed his books and the dishes. It tastes so rebellious for him._

_They are bubble gum and orange juice._

_His long ridiculous nose bumps against hers, while they try to find a good angle, and it ends in them chuckling softly, and him grabbing her head — hands on her cheeks, holding her still. His eyes glow, dark and daring._ _Finally, he can kiss her properly, and that he communicates._

_He wants to proof her that he is indeed a funny kisser, but only on the visible side._

_The rest is pleasing, alluring, and sends a wave of warmth through her body while their tongues search the other again and again._

_There is no talking, no questions. Just hums, and little gasps. He nibbles her neck, and her shoulder is breathing hotly into the crook of her neck while her hands dive in his thick curls. She always had a weakness for his locks, those fluffy fifty shades of Capaldi grey._

_Nails are scratching over his scalp, and he purrs, nibbles harder, and she leans down smelling his hair._ _Only now, she becomes aware they smell like peppermint. She hums in reception._

_'Almonds,' he thinks, his nose gliding up to her ear, hearing her hum, and for a reason he knows it's about his hair._

_He smiles against her skin, having found his new favourite scent._

_They both breath in the other— not wanting to forget._

 

He has a scruff, there in the bookshop, it suits him, she thinks. Everything suits him. Every look. A trash bag would suit him.

Clean shaven, scruff or a beard, she never had met another man, who could wear it all. Peter can. It's fascinating with him.

Without hesitation, she reaches out and touches his cheek, her palm gliding against the line and he does what he had done seven years ago, cups her hand with his, and then kisses her fingertips.

 

_His chin feels soft against her throat while he licks along her collarbone._

_Indeed, there is a difference between kissing him with a beard and without one._

_It is closer, and she lets him know she likes his kisses, by playfully sucking at his lower lip._

_As an answer he scratches the tip of his tongue against her teeth, smirking. Enjoying. Playful she bites his nose, and he needs to giggle._

_She makes him take off his shirt, finding his pale skin, taut over the almost invisible muscles of his chest. He always had been skinny. Lanky, not the typical broad chested hot shot, but fit._

_She can't be eager enough, to press kisses on his skin there, making him fall back with a thud onto the mattress._

_He laughs, and she grins at him, her hair falling toward him, tickling parts of his face, and he brushes strands of hair behind her ear, falling in love with the sight of her like this._

_Not that he hadn't loved her before. He had, from day one, and never had stated anything else. Everybody knows._

_That the heart is a complicated place he had found out decades ago, and because it was useless to fight something, that had its own will, he never had fought it at all._

_Yes, had held himself back, had tried to make wise decisions, to fulfill what society dictated. But the love, he never had fought._

_In the end, it never had been a secret. It never would be because he wasn't a good liar (and he not wanted to be one) and had no illusions about it._

_Honest and full of love, he knows, the next day would be one for confessions._

 

"Sometimes I dream about it, the Tardis," he begins, letting his eyes travel over the many books across from him "With you. You. Me. [ Travelling in the Tardis, as Clara and Doctor. And sometimes as Jenna and Peter. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2279733)"

Five years ago was the reason, they hadn't seen each other in private. A silent decree, and because they knew it was for the best of all, they had honoured it. Writing, phoning and red-carpet events not included — it would have been impossible to separate them entirely.

With him in Spain and her in England, it made things easier. And some not.

She can think very well, where he would like to go when he would have a Tardis at hand at this very moment — an impossibility.

Like him, she remembers how he had kissed every inch of her body, from tip to toe, and back. How he had rolled them over, bringing her onto her back, while licking over her sensitive flesh, making it hard.

 

_Nakedness didn't lead to any shyness — no awkwardness, just giggles and caring touches. They want to feel each other so desperately, and so they spend long minutes drawing lines and pattern onto the skin of the other. They shiver and smile; they inhale and hum -- they are explorers._

_He had given up feeling old around her long ago, and she had given up feeling too young for him. And with that decision made, they explored their bodies like curious teenagers, they both weren't anymore. Time Travel without a box._

_She lies on her stomach, and he licks the part where her shoulder pass into her neck while the back of his fingers trail over her left bottom, along her waistline and it makes her shudder. A hotspot, and he does it again before his palms glide over her bottom, up her spine. His mouth - never tired of making admissions._

_She is writhing under him, arches her back, while he crawls over her, biting into her shoulder, and her backside is pressing deliberate against his half hard erection. He hums, groans and for a second loses track. His forehead is resting between her two shoulder blades, eyes closed._

_Then he turns her around, a finger on her chin, slowly drawing an invisible line over her throat over her chest between her breasts._

_Followed by his half-open mouth, placing longing kisses on her skin, along her collarbones. Every touch gets rewarded with a perceiving hum._

_His fingers know where they want to go, and before he gives into his curiosity, he starts to draw little lines around her belly button and then tickles the hair by her pubic moon. Combing through her short brown curls with his fingertips, before two of his fingers brush lightly over her centre._

 

It had been strange that day with them; she remembers it very clearly while she watches him talk about Spain, Granada in particular.

The whole weekend had been so different, somewhat between exceptional and predictable.

So many things had been said in the years before, with words or without.

Back then, when she had left Doctor Who, they probably had believed they were out of the danger zone.

While the truth was, they were never deeper in it as at that moment she had left.

 

_Uncaring? Clueless? Would that count, later, the next day? Even if it was so, who would believe them. What did it matter in the end?_

_Incredible, long fingers he has, and when he curls them inside of her, pushing against the one point, she is lost. About to get lost even further._

_There is no way back, not with him doing this to her. Sending waves of heat and pleasure through her, while he never gets finished kissing her. Her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, up to her ears where he whispers to her._

_Husky and low, seductive, and she has to admit to herself; she always had dreamed of something like that. Him whispering indecencies to her._

_He is no one for swearing, so no real improprieties — after all he is a restrained Brit, but that isn't the point._

_It's enough that he tells her how it feels, how she feels -- for him. All of this, not particular him pleasing her._

_Gently his thumb brushes over that one little nub that makes her gasp, that makes her reach out for him. His middle._

_Her hands around him, what makes him moan incredible long, his eyes fall shut, and he forgets how to sort letters into familiar words._

_They both forget._

_Everything is slick and messy, and the scent of sweat, sex and desire hangs in the air._

_Her hand slides the whole length up and down, a bit too tight and a bit too slow. It's the exact amount of making him lose his senses, but not lose his steadfastness._

_He bites his lips as if in pain, and he can't tell if he is or if he just is about to arrive on another level of liveliness._

_"Soopy," Jenna whispers into his ear, holding him tight._

_It makes him cock an eyebrow at her, his hands stilling now, "Soopy?" he asks hoarse, underlining it with a smirk and a glance downwards, what makes her giggle._

_"Soopy…," she scratches over his stomach. "Mushy… Everything is. Squishy also."_

_She arches an eyebrow back at him, not without catching her lower lip between her teeth, half grinning._

_His eyes trail over her, her face, the eyes. His mouth is half open, breathing through it, his pupils blown as hers. Then he reaches up with his hand to brush hair out of her face, cupping it. His thumb tracing along her lips._

_Oh, how he wishes he had a pen at this very moment. Drawing her, then make love to her, only to draw her again._

_"Yes," he says. Drawing has to wait. The rest had waited already too long. "Yes," he repeats and presses her into the sheets. Vanishing with his face between her legs._

_It is and always will be the only chance he has, and he doesn't want to waste the moment, only to get nagged by the question how she would have tasted there the rest of his life._

 

He sees Jenna is lost in thought and smirks before touching her forehead with one of his fingers.

"Granada," she whispers quickly, blushing and smirking. Peter has caught her, and she doesn't mind.

"Granada," he smiles back.

On a sunny day, he had taken a wander with his old Nikon through the old, sacred streets of Granada. A day in Autumn. The air was buzzing in the heat with only a light breeze, and the light had been so beautiful.

And while he had strolled around, he found himself sitting on a bench, pulling out his notebook for some quick sketching, wondering why they never had time travelled to Granada.

With a touch of melancholy, he remembered their time together on Teneriffa, all dust and wind. They never had the chance to do a city tour.

Something he would have loved to do. A casual stroll, like they were casual people — tourists.

Or at least, a scene with the Tardis. Clara and the Doctor falling out of it, into the Streets of … Granada. Pamplona. Whatever.

"We should have made Steven write a Tardis scene in Granada," it isn't said as suggestion or question, more as a realization of a missed chance.

“We should have,” she agrees. Her head tilts to the left, and she feels sad now, she imagines how much fun this could have been.

 

_Sweet. Juicy. Slightly bitter and so very soft. Is soft a taste? It could be, he thinks, it must be._

_He can't think clear, and who could in such moment. Not while she squirms under him, while his tongue licks cleverly over all the sensitive parts._

_Her hands dig into his hair, and her legs are coming over his shoulders, and he takes the invitation to endeavour a little more._

_No, he can't think straight, not while he makes her sing while he takes her in — all of her._

‘ _Soft, so soft’, he never wants to forget this, and so he doesn't stop till the ecstasy in her body gets released. Till he feels her body shudder, feels her fingers entangle hard in his curls. A groan and a noise that sounds like the F-word, at least, the first syllable of it — it is music to his ears._

 

"Coffee?" he wonders. "There is a nice café around the corner. Not too noisy."

“I’d love to.”

They pay the books, and while Jenna waits to get her book wrapped as a present, Peter stands aside a shelf with magazines and newspapers. Reading briefly over the headlines, he reaches out to pull out a magazine that seems to be hiding behind the Harold. The Doctor Who Magazine and he holds it up to her, and they share a secret smile.

Five minutes later they sit in the corner of a room; not many people around and it is indeed quiet, and no one seems to recognize them.

Peter orders tea and Jenna cappuccino, and he chooses deliberately the moment she nips from the way too full cup to ask her how her musical career is going.

The mischief in his eyes gets replaced by little wrinkles around his eyes when he needs to laugh over the foam that gets blown over the table.

"Because of you, people ask me regularly at cons if I will do a musical soon!" she beams at him, dapping away some foam from her nose. "I was ten!" She had sung Happy Birthday to herself in an audition, getting the role, and after she had told him once between a take, he never got bored of asking her about her "musical career" and obviously had spread the word in an interview while she hadn't been there. Naughty little beggar.

 

_"My turn," she grins, but he stops her holding her by her shoulders._

_"You… you don't have to," he tells. Not wanting to be the typical cliché._

_"I wouldn't do it if I wouldn't want to." It doesn't escape her, that he is suddenly different, more nervous. "When was the last time-?"_

_"-Can't talk about that," he shuffles slightly, pursing his lips. A gentleman never tells._

_She eyes him for a bit, and then instead of leaning down, she goes the other way, "You don't want me to?"_

_"Didn't say that," he grins like a boy. Nothing in the world would make him say no, and so she beams back, tumbling forward to give him a kiss on the lips to press him back into the pillow._

‘ _Men’, she chuckles in silence, before licking him once. Starting at his balls, over his base up to the tip. Sweet, sweaty and the sound he makes is utterly sexy._

_He is nice to look at down there. Fitting with the rest of his body. There is nothing to complain about. Not for her and she is sure he can't complain either._

_What he has is not bad. Not too good, just very, very nice. He is shaved where it is welcomed when men were shaved, and he isn't where it would look ridiculous if he would be._

O _ne hand of hers touches his stomach, feels the muscles, while the other holds him by the base. Licking again, harder this time, almost filthy, licking away the salty taste that mixes up with his odour and when she reaches the top, she takes him deep into her mouth._

_Over the sensation he clasps his hand over hers, grabbing hard. He feels like drowning for a moment, but it's only his ability to breathe that gets forgotten for a second._

_She hears him gasp and plea to stop, or_ _it will be over before it begins._

 

Peter tells her about his time on stage in Spain, about doing some Shakespeare, about playing in the Ladykillers again, about some funny moments, and he finds delight in her laughs.

Jenna shows him some pictures of her new life on her phone, and he shows her some on his. She tells him about the Comic Con she had been again two years ago. With Matt, and Michelle and, of course, the new Team Tardis.

He had seen the clips on YouTube, his agent had asked if he wanted to come too, but he had declined, doing a few smaller Conventions in Europe. It was more personal, quieter while San Diego was the ultimate buzz, but all so exhausting. Also, he wouldn't have missed her panel for nothing in the world.

"I saw you," he makes it known, remembering her answer the question about who her favourite Doctor is.

Peter — of course — she would miss him very much. Matt had grumbled, had played the indignant, but she had brushed it off with a compliment for bow ties, and the next question had been asked.

"It was lovely to hear."

 

_Her knees had always gone jelly-like, when he gazed at her like this, all smoulder. His pupils blown and his curls ruffled. A mix of being lost and being a predator at the same time._

_One hand is on her back, where his fingers paint little circles over her spine and the other is gently caressing her face. Brushing with the tip of one finger over her forehead, slowly, indulgent, and his eyes study her features now he can be so close._

_Trailing around her eyebrows and the hollows of her eyes, he is memorising every inch. Every feature of her beautiful face, and her gorgeous body he wraps around his memory, so he can return to it whenever he wants._

_Observing him while he gazes down at her, she can't suppress the thought of a silly scene from the movie Titanic. The artist is taking in his model, and she unsuccessfully stifles a giggle._

_He arches an eyebrow at her, a smirk on his face. What silly thing has he done now? He guesses she just had a funny thought, a weird idea or a sudden picture of something because that is all her._ _Bursting out into laughter at the most unusual moments. Why should it be different, the moment before they would sleep with each other?_

_"Ever seen Titanic?" she teases, and all his motions come to a halt while his brain searches for the pun._

_When he has it, he huffs, rolling his eyes exaggerated and leans down to kiss her, only to stop — a giggle fit._

_For a minute, they both laugh, and as sudden as he has started, he can brush it off again, his thumb now trailing over the corner of her mouth, "I know about better things to do." He kisses her. With passion_

_Languid, without any rush -- just them, holding each other close, while tongues explore and lips get nipped._

_Chest against chest their hearts beat hard, building up unique electricity. A buzz that floats through the room, and little hums and gasps create a sensation, while hands travel over hot and sensitive skin, exploring, teasing, scratching._

_There is a first time for everything, they say, and this is theirs. Attentive, slow, a mix of heat and cool sweat. One leg half over his backside, a gentle motion of his pelvis here and an awaiting tilt with her hips there._

_Forehead against forehead, they still, while everything is in motion inside of them. All those imaginations and intimations from the past are becoming real at this very moment._

_They tremble, and he moves forward and can't believe what is happening. It's her, around him, warm and tender, a feeling he tries to savour, he needs to._

 

**_Start across tonight_**

**_Let's put out London’s lights_ **

 

_It’s him inside her, and she feels complete, not only sexually. There is something about to change, a puzzle piece that has been missing for so long, finally falling into place. In her head and her heart._

_They don't blink. Too afraid to miss it, this intertwining of two bodies and two souls._

_For a moment, everything stands still, their hearts, the world — everything._ _Then she leans up, for that one kiss that tells him she is okay, and he smiles against her lips, moving now._

_A rhythm, very slow at first, with many kisses that are sloppy but wanting, and when the feeling of sheer luck is settling, and the lust starts to run high, they move faster._

_Rolling around in the sheets, to the edge of the mattress, one hand holding her head, the other by her waist, he comes up and watches her body move under him, while they connect and disconnect time and time again._

 

**_And in this lonely_ **

**_It's just you and I_ **

 

_He is thrusting into her with more verve now, and she gasps, eyes closed, and when he can't hold out any longer without her mouth by his, he pulls her up into a fierce kiss._

_She ends up on top of him, holding his face in her tiny hands, sucking his tongue while his arms help her ride him._

_He whispers her name, adds endearments here and there and she beams at him, feeling it makes her want him even more._

_She tells him to touch her; she wants to come for him, come undone under his eyes, so the sight of it will be burned into his being._

_It's her way of making him hers. Not that she ever would have a right to call him hers, she never would dare, but she wants him to remember, because people tend not to remember much — except the important things, and she wants this to be important and special._

  _In a small part of his heart, he always would be hers like he would be hers in a corner of her heart — they both wanted it that way._

_She comes in the most astonishing way he not could have imagined. Lips parted, her breath ragged and her hair framing her face that he thinks it should be forbidden to look like this because it makes him almost fall in love with her too much._

_When the first waves of her climax start to wash over her, her left hand lands on his shoulder, her palm holding tight over his muscles by his neck, and he gasps at her with an open mouth, his fingers still moving between them, "So beautiful."_

_Eyes wide open, she stares at him, their trusts now hard, and his other hand steadies her coming body, and then she can't anymore. Her head falls back, and she comes with his name whispered drifting into a moan._

_Almost painfully the muscles contract in her belly, when the beautiful feeling of lust, luck, warmth and love pace through her body. From her middle into her toes. A buzzing, light feeling, and into every tip of her fingers, to the back of her head._

_He can't but make her kiss him, while she still rides the waves of her orgasm, feeding almost off her climax._

_When she feels his lips on hers, she hugs him tight, kissing him deep, moving faster, stretching the pleasuring feeling as long as possible._

_Only slowly coming down, still vibrating with the feeling of hot bliss, she presses her lips against his ear, little moans filling it up, whispering into his ear, "Come."_

_As answer, he captures her lips with wide open eyes that shimmer in all its colours at the same time. Then he falls forward with her, pressing her into the pillow with a kiss while his back arches, and now it's his moment to maker her his._

_There is not much time left. Seeing her come has moved him to the edge. The only thing he has to do now is to let go, follow her. Falling._

 

**_Oh, Be my east and west_ **

**_Take me in my worst and best_ **

 

 _His hand reaches for hers, their fingers entangle, and when she smiles at him and moves with his thrusts, he can feel it coming. A soft tremble at first before his muscles start to clench, right before his orgasm washes over him, getting stronger then, and then his eyes fall shut. As if a barricade is taken away in one harsh wipe, he comes. Falls apart, with his face buried in the crook of her neck. He wants to melt into her._  

_They are there now._

_Her hand is stroking his face. His trailing over her back. That's how the night comes slowly to an end. With longing touches and tender kisses._

_The journey done._

 

**_Forever dreaming of lonely hearts_ **

 

_She caresses his back, licks at his ear, and he chuckles, raising his head, facing her. Happiness._

_He shuffles half his body off her, the rest he can't bring to keep away from her because her skin burns and it makes his sweaty body prickle with delight._

_She turns her head, and he wants to say something, but she just kisses him. Quick and straightforward, slowly moving her lips against his, and he understands._

_They understand._

_No one else will, but it doesn't matter. Because it's none important to them._

_This night is all that matters at this very moment. The wee hours they have._

_Worries can come when the sun rises, but so long, it's them._

_Together._

 

After an hour, they leave the café. Stepping into the busy street, knowing it's time to go back to their lives. It has gotten late, and they have to go home, doing the things they have to do. Family mostly.

She is the first that moves, and reaches out to hug him, and he enjoys the familiar proximity, the scent of her perfume — them being here mostly.

The truth is, they both, independently, wonder sometimes late at night, if the sacrifice of not seeing each other was worth it. Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s no.

"Life is so complicated," he had said once. "Hearts are too, they don't obey, they topple you over before you even know you were struggling with them. Hearts are precious little things, inflicting pain and wonders and love and hurt and _this_ — between you and me."

He had said it in the cloisters when they were filming. A scene that never got filmed. In a minute of bravery, when the chance was there to say the words while hiding in their roles, they decided to act it out. Rehearsal. They were alone that moment.

"We have a life, and we are not willing to give it up because we love the ones we are with. But a heart isn't restricted to one person. Not always, and I am happy it isn't."

 

Jenna leans a bit back, touching his cheek, her eyes speaking for her, and Peter's for him.

Ironically, there was always a bit too much Peter and Jenna in the Doctor and Clara. So he leans in, and gives her a kiss on the corner of her mouth, chaste, but long enough to make the sentiment count before he moves on and presses a proper kiss onto her temple, as he used to do.

When they separate, his hands slide over her arms, till they lose the connection, and for a moment Jenna waits for the Tardis to arrive, to pick up the Doctor, and bites her lower lip with her teeth, grinning at him, when nothing happens. He grins too, having the same thought.

Instead of saying goodbye they just keep standing there in the streets of London, and Peter looks up, glancing at a shop sign across the street, when he makes a step forward, bowing his head to read the street sign with a furrowed brow.

Jenna notices his behaviour, “What is it?”

“That’s Penywern Road, right?” Peter points to his left and then to his right, “And that is Old Manor Yard, yes?”

Something has set him on fire; she can see that. Checking the location, she answers, "Yes, it is."

And there it is, that smile, bright and funny, all teeth with a hint of mischief, “You don’t know?” he teases, stepping closer to her.

“What shall I know?”

Once again he looks around, turns like a human spinning top, and then lunges forward, grabbing her hand with a chuckle, “Come on!” He does the pinguin run. 

"Peter?" of course she will go with him, she just doesn't like that he never tells her what is going on. Control freak she is. "What is it?"

“I’ll show you,” he tugs her gently with him. “But quick!”

Jenna follows, her hair flying around when he spins with her, pacing down the street. His grip firm, commanding. He leads and she follows, like in the good old times. They run together — the best of times.

It's only a minute, and they have hurried around a building when he stops so abruptly that she almost runs against him.

“This better be-,” she gasps, eyes growing bigger now.

Realization. 

Naturally, what else could it be? _Where_ else the universe would guide them?

Peter still holds her hand, grinning down at her. He is not a kid again, no, for one small moment in time, he is the Doctor again, and Jenna is his companion.

They are at Earl’s Court, and there it stands. Slap bang in the middle of the street.

The Tardis.

Jenna lets go of his hand, slowly approaching the wooden box. Tourists hang around, passerby's cross the place. It's crowded, and people bump into her without noticing who she is, and who the tall man behind her is, who smiles fondly at her.

Her hand lands on the wooden surface, gently stroking the material, taking it in. It feels different. It's not their Tardis - but another model. Redecorated.

After a moment she turns around, finding Peter stand behind her. Hands in his pockets, his gaze directed at her, and then he lets it wander over the Tardis. A bit proud, a bit astonished and a tiny bit awestruck.

A minute ago she was about to cry, and now she stands there in front of an unreal Tardis, and it means the world to her because it's with him. Peter. Her best friend.

Yes, in the end, it will be just a brief moment before they return home. To wife and husband. Kids and Grandkids.

 

To before, what is now an after.

 

“My dear Doctor.”

“My dear Companion.”

 

There are many stories in the world.

 

Peter and Jenna. Jenna and Peter.

 

They _are_ a story in the end.

 

I dare say, they made it a good one.

 

**_End._ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are.
> 
> The End. Feels okay - for me. I think it was time.  
> Peter and Jenna don't hang out with each other anymore (not much), so Colepaldi is not dead but what I need for inspiration, is now very rare.  
> Myself is going new paths in life, a new job, and I will be busy, and I think this is a good moment to stop writing Colepaldi. I'll keep writing fanfiction, but no more for those two. I noticed other writers step up, and I am curious where they will go, and hopefully they keep writing them, because what I always have missed was reading other Colepaldi fics. (The struggle was real! :D)
> 
> I loved writing them, loved exploring this and there is always a chance I grab the pen again when Jenna comes back to DW, but I won't promise it.  
> It was a wild ride, every story and I have to thank foremost my readers, who read my stuff and who never got tired of sending in prompts and ideas. I couldn't write everything, but I hope most of it found the way into the story, even only as a short sentence.
> 
> Is there something I have to say? Anything? I don't think so. Everything is in the story (and the stories). Everything I wanted to express and I believe I treated them all honest (sure there will be some happy to disagree ), and I am pleased with this end.  
> As this is probably the last end for Colepaldi I have written, I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to be special, and I let them step out of the cafe, and didn't know what to do. And then a Tardis gif crossed my dash, and I knew! I knew what I had to do.  
> My first fic started in the Tardis, so why not let it end with it?
> 
> I also want to point out, that with this last story, all my fics are available in book form. You can contact me through the mail address in my profile or via Tumblr for further information. Some of my readers maybe remember I have offered the first 40 stories already in one book and have made now the second part, with the other 20 stories.
> 
> I also plan to "orphan" this collection in a month or two, what will separate it from my account, but will keep it on Ao3.
> 
> Thanks for following this, me, my writing and being there. And you guys were there, sometimes with reading only, sometimes with lovely comments, or messages via Tumblr.
> 
> Conjure a last smile on my face in leaving a comment on this story and this collection in general! Thanks for the read, take care and have a great day! You guys were fantastic, and you know what?
> 
> So was I! ;)


	2. Story without love-scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the same story as in Chapter 1, but I erased the love scene, as some might not want to read it, but still interested in follow this story to the end. The erased parts are replaced by (...) .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sentences, I think are important to the story, from the love-scene part, I left in, but they have no sexual content.

 

**_Five years later._ **

 

[They meet in a bookshop. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5130011)On a Sunday.

What kind of bookshop has open on a Sunday? This one obviously.

She is there on coincidence, browsing for a present.

He is there on coincidence too, because, after all these years, he finally can browse without being noticed all too often.

Coincidence. Maybe that it was. Also, we all know that the universe is rarely so lazy.

He has basically retired. From time to time doing a thing here and there. Nothing too big, just something to fill up the need to act and to do something. The acting it's in his blood, in his bones, and knows he will do it till he falls into his grave.

Mostly he enjoys having Grandchildren now. That is his new role, and he found himself enjoying it -- sometimes too much.

She enjoys similar. Not Grandchildren, just children. Time has passed, it was about time probably. Family. That's her main project at the moment, aside many others.

Always restless, always the busy actress nevertheless. She asked him to come, a few years ago, to the big event, but he hadn't been available. He was doing a thing, and instead sent her a lovely little video message, telling her he would have loved to see her in that dress. That he loved her in general.

They both knew why he couldn't be there. And it had been okay.

It's good to see her again, not that they hadn't met a few times over the last five years. They just never had met in private, like this, on coincidence — in a bookshop.

 

They settle into a corner, each one of them a book in hand, and if it is only to keep their hands busy, and away from each other. The magic is still there, the highly praised chemistry, glowing around them. It never got tired of leaving them.

There is no chit-chat, no awkward talk about film projects. It is only them, being all too familiar with each other. She compliments his shirt, tells him he looks good, very good, for his age. The weather of Spain did an excellent job on him, and he tells her that she is glowing from the inside, more than ever. That he has cried like a kid, seeing her last film, so touched he had been by it.

"What are you reading?" she glances at the book in his hand, and he smirks at it, and then smiles at her — a little sad.

It's a throwback; she will remember, he is sure when he turns the cover showing her ["Night Train to Lisbon".](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3736528/chapters/8445373)

“I haven’t read it for a while,” the tips of his long fingers, on one his golden ring, trail gently over the cover. “It gives me comfort.”

 He had sent her a copy a few years ago, plain, without a big fuss. Just an envelope, postmarked in Spain.

On the inside, _‘for Jenna. Peter'._

Nothing more was needed. It had always been like this. They knew, they always had. A sentiment one hadn't to talk about too much. They were British after all. And Scottish.

They still remember as if it had been yesterday. And for some reason in their heads, it only had been yesterday. A memory burned so deep into their beings, that time had lost its meaning.

 

 

_(...)_

 

Once she had stood in a store, lost, and when she had looked down, there was a record of David Bowie. Not his latest, but the one with ‘Heroes' on it. She never really had been into Bowie, she couldn't say why. It was just not her thing. But the song was, and the record that sat there, probably for ages, waiting for her — in her mind, only for her. So she bought it — not even having a record player at home.

Two weeks later she bought one. After the record had leaned against the glass of the window in her study. Between pictures from filming, some awards, little fan drawings.

Hidden in plain sight.

Bowie. Peter. Heroes. She had heard him play the song, all those years ago, in the Tardis — of course, while her heart had been on fire and was breaking at the same time.

They both knew she had listened. She never had forgotten.

 

 

_(...)_

 

He has a scruff, there in the bookshop, it suits him, she thinks. Everything suits him. Every look. A trash bag would suit him.

Clean shaven, scruff or a beard, she never had met another man, who could wear it all. Peter can. It's fascinating with him.

Without hesitation, she reaches out and touches his cheek, her palm gliding against the line and he does what he had done seven years ago, cups her hand with his, and then kisses her fingertips.

 

_(...)_

_That the heart is a complicated place he had found out decades ago, and because it was useless to fight something, that had its own will, he never had fought it at all._

_Yes, had held himself back, had tried to make wise decisions, to fulfill what society dictated. But the love, he never had fought._

_In the end, it never had been a secret. It never would be because he wasn't a good liar (and he not wanted to be one) and had no illusions about it._

_Honest and full of love, he knows, the next day would be one for confessions._

 

"Sometimes I dream about it, the Tardis," he begins, letting his eyes travel over the many books across from him "With you. You. Me. [Travelling in the Tardis, as Clara and Doctor. And sometimes as Jenna and Peter. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2279733)"

Five years ago was the reason, they hadn't seen each other in private. A silent decree, and because they knew it was for the best of all, they had honoured it. Writing, phoning and red-carpet events not included — it would have been impossible to separate them entirely.

With him in Spain and her in England, it made things easier. And some not.

She can think very well, where he would like to go when he would have a Tardis at hand at this very moment — an impossibility.

 

 

_(...)_

 

It had been strange that day with them; she remembers it very clearly while she watches him talk about Spain, Granada in particular.

The whole weekend had been so different, somewhat between exceptional and predictable.

So many things had been said in the years before, with words or without.

Back then, when she had left Doctor Who, they probably had believed they were out of the danger zone.

While the truth was, they were never deeper in it as at that moment she had left.

 

_Uncaring? Clueless? Would that count, later, the next day? Even if it was so, who would believe them. What did it matter in the end?_

_(...)_

 

He sees Jenna is lost in thought and smirks before touching her forehead with one of his fingers.

"Granada," she whispers quickly, blushing and smirking. Peter has caught her, and she doesn't mind.

"Granada," he smiles back.

On a sunny day, he had taken a wander with his old Nikon through the old, sacred streets of Granada. A day in Autumn. The air was buzzing in the heat with only a light breeze, and the light had been so beautiful.

And while he had strolled around, he found himself sitting on a bench, pulling out his notebook for some quick sketching, wondering why they never had time travelled to Granada.

With a touch of melancholy, he remembered their time together on Teneriffa, all dust and wind. They never had the chance to do a city tour.

Something he would have loved to do. A casual stroll, like they were casual people — tourists.

Or at least, a scene with the Tardis. Clara and the Doctor falling out of it, into the Streets of … Granada. Pamplona. Whatever.

"We should have made Steven write a Tardis scene in Granada," it isn't said as suggestion or question, more as a realization of a missed chance.

“We should have,” she agrees. Her head tilts to the left, and she feels sad now, she imagines how much fun this could have been.

 

_(...)_

 

"Coffee?" he wonders. "There is a nice café around the corner. Not too noisy."

“I’d love to.”

They pay the books, and while Jenna waits to get her book wrapped as a present, Peter stands aside a shelf with magazines and newspapers. Reading briefly over the headlines, he reaches out to pull out a magazine that seems to be hiding behind the Harold. The Doctor Who Magazine and he holds it up to her, and they share a secret smile.

Five minutes later they sit in the corner of a room; not many people around and it is indeed quiet, and no one seems to recognize them.

Peter orders tea and Jenna cappuccino, and he chooses deliberately the moment she nips from the way too full cup to ask her how her musical career is going.

The mischief in his eyes gets replaced by little wrinkles around his eyes when he needs to laugh over the foam that gets blown over the table.

"Because of you, people ask me regularly at cons if I will do a musical soon!" she beams at him, dapping away some foam from her nose. "I was ten!" She had sung Happy Birthday to herself in an audition, getting the role, and after she had told him once between a take, he never got bored of asking her about her "musical career" and obviously had spread the word in an interview while she hadn't been there. Naughty little beggar.

 

_(...)_

 

Peter tells her about his time on stage in Spain, about doing some Shakespeare, about playing in the Ladykillers again, about some funny moments, and he finds delight in her laughs.

Jenna shows him some pictures of her new life on her phone, and he shows her some on his. She tells him about the Comic Con she had been again two years ago. With Matt, and Michelle and, of course, the new Team Tardis.

He had seen the clips on YouTube, his agent had asked if he wanted to come too, but he had declined, doing a few smaller Conventions in Europe. It was more personal, quieter while San Diego was the ultimate buzz, but all so exhausting. Also, he wouldn't have missed her panel for nothing in the world.

"I saw you," he makes it known, remembering her answer the question about who her favourite Doctor is.

Peter — of course — she would miss him very much. Matt had grumbled, had played the indignant, but she had brushed it off with a compliment for bow ties, and the next question had been asked.

"It was lovely to hear."

 

_(...)_

 

**_Start across tonight_ **

**_Let's put out London’s lights_ **

 

_(...)_

 

**_And in this lonely_ **

**_It's just you and I_ **

 

_(...)_

 

**_Oh, Be my east and west_ **

**_Take me in my worst and best_ **

 

_(...)_

 

**_Forever dreaming of lonely hearts_ **

 

_(...)_

_She turns her head, and he wants to say something, but she just kisses him. Quick and straightforward, slowly moving her lips against his, and he understands._

_They understand._

_No one else will, but it doesn't matter. Because it's none important to them._

_This night is all that matters at this very moment. The wee hours they have._

_Worries can come when the sun rises, but so long, it's them._

_Together._

 

After an hour, they leave the café. Stepping into the busy street, knowing it's time to go back to their lives. It has gotten late, and they have to go home, doing the things they have to do. Family mostly.

She is the first that moves, and reaches out to hug him, and he enjoys the familiar proximity, the scent of her perfume — them being here mostly.

The truth is, they both, independently, wonder sometimes late at night, if the sacrifice of not seeing each other was worth it. Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s no.

"Life is so complicated," he had said once. "Hearts are too, they don't obey, they topple you over before you even know you were struggling with them. Hearts are precious little things, inflicting pain and wonders and love and hurt and _this_ — between you and me."

He had said it in the cloisters when they were filming. A scene that never got filmed. In a minute of bravery, when the chance was there to say the words while hiding in their roles, they decided to act it out. Rehearsal. They were alone that moment.

"We have a life, and we are not willing to give it up because we love the ones we are with. But a heart isn't restricted to one person. Not always, and I am happy it isn't."

 

Jenna leans a bit back, touching his cheek, her eyes speaking for her, and Peter's for him.

Ironically, there was always a bit too much Peter and Jenna in the Doctor and Clara. So he leans in, and gives her a kiss on the corner of her mouth, chaste, but long enough to make the sentiment count before he moves on and presses a proper kiss onto her temple, as he used to do.

When they separate, his hands slide over her arms, till they lose the connection, and for a moment Jenna waits for the Tardis to arrive, to pick up the Doctor, and bites her lower lip with her teeth, grinning at him, when nothing happens. He grins too, having the same thought.

Instead of saying goodbye they just keep standing there in the streets of London, and Peter looks up, glancing at a shop sign across the street, when he makes a step forward, bowing his head to read the street sign with a furrowed brow.

Jenna notices his behaviour, “What is it?”

“That’s Penywern Road, right?” Peter points to his left and then to his right, “And that is Old Manor Yard, yes?”

Something has set him on fire; she can see that. Checking the location, she answers, "Yes, it is."

And there it is, that smile, bright and funny, all teeth with a hint of mischief, “You don’t know?” he teases, stepping closer to her.

“What shall I know?”

Once again he looks around, turns like a human spinning top, and then lunges forward, grabbing her hand with a chuckle, “Come on!” He does the pinguin run. 

"Peter?" of course she will go with him, she just doesn't like that he never tells her what is going on. Control freak she is. "What is it?"

“I’ll show you,” he tugs her gently with him. “But quick!”

Jenna follows, her hair flying around when he spins with her, pacing down the street. His grip firm, commanding. He leads and she follows, like in the good old times. They run together — the best of times.

It's only a minute, and they have hurried around a building when he stops so abruptly that she almost runs against him.

“This better be-,” she gasps, eyes growing bigger now.

Realization. 

Naturally, what else could it be? _Where_ else the universe would guide them?

Peter still holds her hand, grinning down at her. He is not a kid again, no, for one small moment in time, he is the Doctor again, and Jenna is his companion.

They are at Earl’s Court, and there it stands. Slap bang in the middle of the street.

The Tardis.

Jenna lets go of his hand, slowly approaching the wooden box. Tourists hang around, passerby's cross the place. It's crowded, and people bump into her without noticing who she is, and who the tall man behind her is, who smiles fondly at her.

Her hand lands on the wooden surface, gently stroking the material, taking it in. It feels different. It's not their Tardis - but another model. Redecorated.

After a moment she turns around, finding Peter stand behind her. Hands in his pockets, his gaze directed at her, and then he lets it wander over the Tardis. A bit proud, a bit astonished and a tiny bit awestruck.

A minute ago she was about to cry, and now she stands there in front of an unreal Tardis, and it means the world to her because it's with him. Peter. Her best friend.

Yes, in the end, it will be just a brief moment before they return home. To wife and husband. Kids and Grandkids.

 

To before, what is now an after.

 

“My dear Doctor.”

“My dear Companion.”

 

There are many stories in the world.

 

Peter and Jenna. Jenna and Peter.

 

They _are_ a story in the end.

 

I dare say, they made it a good one.

 

**_End._ **

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. 
> 
> The End. Feels okay - for me. I think it was time.  
> Peter and Jenna don't hang out with each other anymore (not much), so Colepaldi is not dead but what I need for inspiration, is now very rare.  
> Myself is going new paths in life, a new job, and I will be busy, and I think this is a good moment to stop writing Colepaldi. I'll keep writing fanfiction, but no more for those two. I noticed other writers step up, and I am curious where they will go, and hopefully they keep writing them, because what I always have missed was reading other Colepaldi fics. (The struggle was real! :D)
> 
> I loved writing them, loved exploring this and there is always a chance I grab the pen again when Jenna comes back to DW, but I won't promise it.  
> It was a wild ride, every story and I have to thank foremost my readers, who read my stuff and who never got tired of sending in prompts and ideas. I couldn't write everything, but I hope most of it found the way into the story, even only as a short sentence. 
> 
> Is there something I have to say? Anything? I don't think so. Everything is in the story (and the stories). Everything I wanted to express and I believe I treated them all honest (sure there will be some happy to disagree ), and I am pleased with this end.  
> As this is probably the last end for Colepaldi I have written, I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to be special, and I let them step out of the cafe, and didn't know what to do. And then a Tardis gif crossed my dash, and I knew! I knew what I had to do.  
> My first fic [started in the Tardis,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2276181) so why not let it end with it?
> 
> I also want to point out, that with this last story, all my fics are available in book form. You can contact me through the mail address in my profile or via Tumblr for further information. Some of my readers maybe remember I have offered the first 40 stories already in one book and have made now the second part, with the other 20 stories. 
> 
> I also plan to "orphan" this collection in a month or two, what will separate it from my account, but will keep it on Ao3.
> 
> Thanks for following this, me, my writing and being there. You guys were there, sometimes with reading only, sometimes with lovely comments, or messages via Tumblr. THANKS FOR ALL THE COMMENTS, ALL THE MESSAGES, ALL THE KUDOS! I can't thank you all enough!
> 
> Conjure a last smile on my face in leaving a comment on this story and this collection in general! Thanks for the read, take care and have a great day! You guys were fantastic, and you know what?
> 
> So was I! ;)


End file.
